


In Your Own Time (But Quite Quickly)

by Berty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alley Sex, Autumn, Bisexual John Watson, Epiphanies, First Kiss, First Time Blow Jobs, Friends to Lovers, London, M/M, Pining Sherlock, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 09:12:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12429642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berty/pseuds/Berty
Summary: John is no stranger to the attraction of Sherlock Holmes, he just never thought of himself as beingattractedto him.





	In Your Own Time (But Quite Quickly)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saladscream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saladscream/gifts).



> Written for the most gorgeous of people - talented, generous and unfailingly supportive. Happy Birthday, Saladscream! I'm sorry it's a bit rough and ready, but we both know how bad I am at deadlines and this is one I definitely wanted to hit.

When it finally happens, it’s the work of mere seconds. In the time it takes to breathe three breaths, Sherlock shifts from rude, annoying, brilliant, lanky best friend/flatmate into something _other._ Something incandescent and beautiful. Something that breaks down the carefully constructed walls of John Watson’s self-image as if they were less than cobwebs.

It’s not an obvious place for a revelation, Tower Hamlets at two in the morning. They’re cold, tired and hungry, and Sherlock’s magical taxi summoning powers obviously don’t work this far from the heart of his city, so they’re walking back from following up a theory of Sherlock’s that didn’t play the way he’d expected. They’re quiet. John’s just been a little short with Sherlock for calling him an idiot for the third time inside an hour. Sherlock is sulking. The air smells of autumn; bonfires, decaying leaves and the wet wool scent of their coats. Their footsteps are muffled by the pervasive damp – a light drizzle or a heavy mist – either way it’s all a bit miserable.

They pass beneath a streetlamp that leaches all colour from the scene other than its own pink-tinged sodium-yellow. Sherlock pauses, lifts his head and gets his bearings. The moisture in the air has settled on his dark coat and scarf, but more than that, it has beaded Sherlock’s hair with tiny, jewel droplets. They ring his head like a nimbus, gathering the uncanny light and refracting it so it looks like it’s glowing.

And the world seems to fall away.

Objectively, John knows that Sherlock is a striking man. It’s more than his height and his curls and his cheekbones – all of those are easily balanced out by his brusque manner, his impatience and his calculatedly shocking pronouncements. But he has a kind of electricity about him that attracts attention and fascinates: moths and flames. Just ask Molly Hooper. And John’s experienced his fair share of that pull too, if he’s honest. He knows how that feels. He’s at his best when he’s with Sherlock Holmes, and who’d want to willingly give up that feeling? Even if it was safer not to. Even if it left you no time for anything else. Even if it meant you would kill for him. John is no stranger to the attraction of Sherlock Holmes, he just never thought of himself as being _attracted_ to him.

It’s not even a question of love. He’s not ashamed of the love he has for Sherlock, which is just as well because it must be fairly obvious to anyone who knows them that John’s regard for the world’s only consulting detective runs deep. It wasn’t a conscious choice on John’s part, but the whole thing was so quick and painless that he barely noticed the moment it changed. It got lost between, “Afghanistan or Iraq?” and, “Dinner?” somewhere. In many ways, John’s relationship with Sherlock is the closest he’s ever been to anyone. It would explain how often he has to spell out that he and Sherlock are not a couple. He can understand that his platonic love and deep affection for the man could look like something more, if people didn’t know him well.

But John’s not gay. He’s not. He likes women. He likes their softness, their smoothness, the way their bodies yield to his. He likes to lose himself in their lovemaking, in the give and take of mutual pleasure. He likes the thrill of a flirty smile, the flash of intelligent eyes, the conscious display of interest. It’s a game, and he’s very good at it. He may not have found the perfect woman for him yet - not even Mary, for all that she came closest – but that doesn’t mean that he won’t or that he’s stalling or avoiding settling down. And he’s not latently homophobic – if it makes you happy and doesn’t hurt anyone, he’s all for it. Live and let live, as Mrs Hudson says. He’s just never experienced attraction to anything but the female form.

Until now.

Sherlock’s pale eyes are opaque in this low light. They cast from point to point, gathering data, testing and verifying. There’s a sliver of white throat exposed as he cranes his neck to see beyond the junction they’re at. His face is milky with the merest smudges of colour on his cheekbones from their brisk walk. His lips – ridiculous, sensuous, bowed lips – are parted and his tongue darts out to moisten the bottom one as he calculates the best way to get them home. And still the dampness clings to his curls, making his head look haloed against the tawdry streetlight. An urban angel.

The flush of awareness washes clean and smooth through John and he breathes it out. It peaks as he inhales again, settling heavy sweetness in the small of his back, across his shoulders and low in his belly. Warmth settles in his sternum with his third breath and he recognises _want_ as it slots in beside _love_ and makes something new. Something unexpected.

“John?” Sherlock is watching him out of the corner of his eye, but he brings his head around, hawk-like at whatever must be showing on his face.

Reaching up, John sweeps his palm along Sherlock’s jaw until he’s cradling it in his hand. The flicker of Sherlock’s pulse bats at his little finger and the sharp prickle of his stubble feels alive in John’s palm.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow as he searches John’s face and widen comically a second later, sending his eyebrows high in surprise. John draws his face down, driving the fingers of his other hand deep into Sherlock’s hair where it’s warm and thick. He presses his mouth to Sherlock’s, frozen in shock. His lips are full but cool and tacky. John doesn’t care. He tastes them anyway, running a gentle tongue along the seam of Sherlock’s lips. He feels the shudder snake through the taller man’s body and he pulls back slowly, savouring the way their mouths cling and the flutter of Sherlock’s eyelashes as he blinks his eyes open.

It takes a full ten seconds for Sherlock to recover himself sufficiently to function. He stares deeply into John’s eyes, rolling his lips between his teeth as he processes. He straightens slowly and John lets him go. The warmth of his scalp lingers on John’s fingers and he curls them into his palm to hold that for a second or two more.

Sherlock’s face is a metaphorical war zone. Usually so impassive, John is fascinated to see so much crowding his friend’s face at once, each too fleeting to name. He pulls in a sharp breath and John waits.

“Bow…Bow Road Station is that way,” he nods over John’s shoulder. His voice is rough and unsteady. “It’s on the Hammersmith line, so it’s already closed for the night but we should be able to get a cab from there.”

John is too stunned to respond, so when Sherlock nods and steps around him to walk in the aforementioned direction, he falls into step beside him automatically. That’s his place. Side by side. Looking out for each other.

Oh, and as a point of interest, John doesn’t love Sherlock; he’s _in love_ with Sherlock.

A split second of insight - the romance of being cold and damp or the ambience of terraced housing and sickly street lighting - has brought about an epiphany.

Up to now John has been attracted to a potential partner before any other considerations were entertained. Attractions that sometimes grew into something more and that sometimes didn’t. No hard feelings and any damage done could be soon mended. Even his breakup with Mary after Sherlock’s return has left him with some tender memories and few regrets. And this is how he has been fooled into thinking that for all their compatibility and mutual fondness, he and Sherlock weren’t suited for more. John never expected to find another man attractive and even in the depths of his despair at Sherlock’s apparent suicide when the pain had had him emotionally crippled and counting the days through the bottom of a tumbler, he still hadn’t twigged that he was grieving his _partner._ And now the world has shifted, a fraction of a fraction of a degree and everything makes sense.

Or he thought it did. But Sherlock…

They turn down an alley between two rows of houses – one of the secret ways of London that Sherlock hoards. There’s a streetlight at either end, but the one in the middle is out. Sherlock has his hands buried in his pockets and his head down. There’s something wrong with this picture.

“Sorry, sorry, I just have to…” John crowds into Sherlock’s space, pulling him in with the lapels of his heavy coat. He kisses him again, tilting his head back and teasing Sherlock’s mouth open with nips and sucks. The second he complies, John slides their mouths just so and dips inside Sherlock’s mouth with a gentle, coaxing tongue.

The noise Sherlock makes is perfection – a greedy whimper that sends John’s heart hammering behind his ribs. He turns Sherlock and presses him back against the rough alley wall. He slumps a little and John pushes his way between Sherlock’s legs, kicking his feet wider to bring their mouths to the same level. He dives back in, burrowing his hands under the heavy material of Sherlock’s coat to touch the warmth beneath. It’s not enough. He yanks Sherlock’s shirt out of his waistband and sweeps his cool palms over Sherlock’s burning skin from his waist to his shoulder blades and back again. It feels smooth but John knows there are thin silver scars there that make his stomach swoop whenever he catches sight of them; proof of the price that Sherlock paid for him. For them.

They’re panting into each other’s mouth now while Sherlock catches up, his long fingers at the buttons of John’s coat, then his arms are curling inside, twining around John’s back and holding him close.

Pulling back to see Sherlock’s face, John watches him. It’s dizzying, the pace of this change. Sherlock berates him for seeing without observing, but John’s eyes are clear now – he’s amazed he didn’t see it before. He must have been blind all these years. And the echoed want in Sherlock’s eyes is raw and blazing and…fading?

Sherlock is visibly reining in his reaction, and every space the desire leaves behind is quickly filled with hurt and fear. He licks his lips carefully, removes his arms from John’s body and begins to reconstruct the Sherlock that John has lived with all this time. It’s like a magic trick: smoke and mirrors. Before his eyes the annoying, brilliant best friend is returning – cool, aloof, cuttingly funny – and the _other_ Sherlock – the unguarded one, the one that wants him, the one who moans so perfectly when they kiss - _that_ Sherlock is ebbing away, leaving no trace.

Sherlock was right all along: John is an idiot.

“No,” John tells him softly. “Whatever it is you’re thinking right now is wrong.” But Sherlock won’t look at him, his eyes anywhere but on John’s face.

Very deliberately, achingly slowly, John pushes up and in with his hips, willing Sherlock to feel the evidence of his desire. And Sherlock’s own hardness is there in answer. It’s there – thank god – and John exults as it swells further against him.

Sherlock inhales sharply and his head thumps back against the brick. John touches his lips to the few centimetres of pale throat that uncovers. He adjusts his stance and pushes in again, rubbing their arousal higher with each pass of his hips.

“John!” Ah, the _other_ Sherlock is back.

“Shhh, love. I’ve got you,” he whispers. His hands trace a path to Sherlock’s waistband – he has deft fingers and he uses them to good effect now, unbuttoning and unzipping, Sherlock and then himself. He pushes their clothing away just enough that he can get a hand to them, to draw them both out. The cold, damp air is sharp, but it is as nothing when he curls his palm around them both. The heat of Sherlock’s cock is shocking wherever they touch. He rubs curious fingers up the length of him. He’s circumcised, the crown of him smooth and warm and slippery with the moisture that beads at his slit.

He should be freaking out about now. It’s only been five minutes since he recognised his attraction for men – or one man in particular? - it remains to be seen and is irrelevant anyway. If he had any sense he would be taking his time, recognising his feelings, coming to terms and making sure. What he’s doing is the emotional equivalent of jumping in with both feet, his eyes shut, a devil-may-care grin on his face and all with the utter certainty that this is the right thing to do. He knows he can never be a cause of hurt to Sherlock, and that means he must do whatever it takes to keep him free from that hurt. It’s no small ask, but John has wasted so much time already and if his observational skills are not up to Sherlock’s standards, even he knows that Sherlock’s response means he has been waiting, hoping and wanting. It would be rude (and stupid) to make him wait any longer.

Sherlock’s hands come up to hold John’s head as he drags John’s lips to his, bruising and hot and wet. He whines into John’s mouth, and John knows that this isn’t going to take long. He may not have touched another man like this before, but he knows what he likes himself, and if it’s going to be fast, it should be hard and dirty too.

He sends a quick prayer to the gods of sex in public places for a lack of passersby and drops to his knees.

“Oh fuck!’ Sherlock breathes, his voice wrecked, and his cock bobs, scant centimetres from John’s mouth. He’s quite sure that if he even breathes on Sherlock right now, he’ll come, so he doesn’t give himself time to think, just opens his mouth and takes half of Sherlock’s rather pretty cock in. He flattens his tongue against the underside, keeps his teeth covered and sucks.

Tightening his fists painfully in John’s hair, Sherlock comes instantly. John’s hands come up to pin Sherlock’s hips to the wall before he chokes him or collapses onto him. The flavour is going to take some getting used to, John thinks, but sex with Sherlock has immediately become his favourite thing. The way he gasps and trembles and whispers his name are things that John knows he will never get tired of, as long as he lives. He’s never felt more connected or more privileged than he does right now with Sherlock letting him see him like this, open and honest and present. Human.

John has a hand on his own cock, even as Sherlock stops pulsing on his tongue and he lets him slip out of his mouth. He knows that he hasn’t managed to swallow all of Sherlock’s spill, and it must be that which Sherlock’s gaze focuses in on, where it is smeared on his chin. Either way, the way his eyes look at John with confused wonder leaves him with only three short, hard pulls on his own dick before he is spilling all over Sherlock’s trouser leg, his shoes and the ground.

As their breathing settles, Sherlock tucks himself away without fuss, and then reaches down to tug John to his feet. He’s still not quite over the aftershocks, but Sherlock is careful and gentle as he tidies John up too, buttoning his jeans looking down into his face, and it could be the endorphins, but John doesn’t mind him seeing whatever it is that’s so apparently fascinating about his eyes suddenly. Sherlock swipes his fingers across John’s chin and then kisses him, soft and simple.

A cat meows very loudly and very suddenly over Sherlock’s shoulder, making them both jump. It shatters the moment, but they both smile anyway, turning to continue in their quest for a cab, walking closer now. Sharing heat.

“Bloody Peeping Tom,” John whispers, then realises what he’s said and catches Sherlock’s eye. Sherlock snorts and John gets a dose of the giggles. The knees of his jeans are wet and probably filthy. Sherlock has come on his expensive trousers and shoes although John can’t find it in himself to feel bad about that. They both wear silly, slightly hysterical grins.

He wonders what Sherlock’s expecting to happen now. He wonders how often he will have to reassure him of his place in John’s affections. He hopes he never has to see Sherlock hiding what he feels for him again. It might have taken him a ridiculously long time to realise about the _in love_ part of their partnership, but now he’s caught up, he wants it all, right now. It should be easy enough. After all he loved Sherlock within a day of meeting him and fell _in love_ with him in the space of three breaths.

Well, five years and three breaths.

 

Fin


End file.
